Percy jackson: Legendary cyber Hero volume one
by confusion-123
Summary: Olympus has gone silent after the deadliest war between big three, Queen Annabeth daughter of Athena is forced to flee from her kingdom, Annabeh has no Idea that strange warrior who helps her is a cyborg or is he more; But then a freak accident damages the Micro-supercompter that controls cyborg, and is free to take charge of his destiny...what role will he play in now
1. Prologue

**~36 AD~**

Prologue

"More monsters have come from the Death Zone, Sire." King Fredrick Chase looked up at his trusted advisor. Lines of weariness mapped his parchment pale skin, and steel-grey brows drew together above dark blue eyes that had lost their lustre.

Shadows lurked in their depths, reflecting pain that gnawed at his innards and loosened his hold on life. The doctors had withdrawn from the sickbed and stood in affronted unwillingness to admit their failure.

Indigo velvet curtains covered the windows and kept the wood-panelled bedchamber gloomy, adding to the sense of doom. Smoking braziers burnt incense, thickening the air with cloying scent. Bottles, vials and pots cluttered the bedside table, testament to the doctors' futile ministrations.

King Fredrick's swift illness had taken everyone by surprise, wasted the flesh from his powerful frame at an alarming speed and robbed him of his strength. The King's eyes wandered over his longtime friend's face, as if seeking an answer in his elderly features. Despair flared in his eyes.

"What can I do about it now, Pervor? All that I can, I have done. Did you meet the wizard?" Pervor nodded. "He agreed to help. He told me that he would send a tool, some sort of magical device, and it will appear in our dungeons when it is ready. Do you truly trust this man, Sire? You leave the fate of your kingdom and your daughter in his hands." Fredrick sighed. "What choice do I have? The gods have decided to take me from this mortal plane, and none can gainsay them. Certainly not that brood of incompetents that lurk in the shadows.

I only wish I could stay to see it through. Annabeth does not deserve this burden on her reign. She is too young." Anger warmed the old King's cheeks for a moment before it drained away again. His wheezing broke the hush.

"Annabeth is strong," Pervor said. "She comes from a long line of warrior kings and Godess of war Athena. She will win." Fredrick shook his head and closed his eyes. "I know". Her mother was as the most Intelligent women, I met though I never knew her as Godess Athena until our last meeting where she left my girl in my hand, She's as fragile as a flower, and as easily crushed. Annabeth tries to be a warrior princess, but she is too small, her blows too puny. Mandon, bless him, makes her feel good when she does her sword training, but he tells me that she can hardly cleave a butterfly in half."  
"But she has Athena's blood in her, My King. She will be strong when she has to."  
"She will try. I pray she does not kill herself in the process. Pervor, swear to me." The advisor fell to one knee. "Anything, Sire, just name it."  
"Protect her, and if you cannot, since you are old, find a mighty warrior who will. One who will stand beside her and kill her enemies. She will have troubles aplenty, and not merely the monsters from the Death Zone.

The kings will fight for her hand, and none are good. Find someone. Be he mage or warrior, prince or miracle worker. She will need him. Swear this to me." Pervor bowed his head. "I swear, My King, upon Styx and my children's, to do my utmost."  
"Tell her of the weapon as soon as she is Queen. Help her to use it, and defeat the Death Zone. I leave her in your care."  
Pervor nodded, frowning as the King's breath rattled.

A healer came closer to bend over him. "Send for the Princess." The advisor rose and retreated as a manservant ran out. The King lay shrunken and pale on the huge bed, the doctors gathered around him like vultures about a corpse.

Princess Annabeth Chase gazed down at her father's peaceful face, her throat tight. He seemed to have aged a decade in the last week. His lips were tinged with blue and he breathed in wheezing gasps. A bevy of doctors, advisors and servants stood in the shadows. She stroked his brow, lined by years of worry. The King was dying. Everyone knew it. Soon, she would be queen of a vast and powerful land. Her father had never wed in life, rejecting all offers. He had met the Athena, A brief year of happiness had ended with her mother a few days after Annabeth's birth. She had abandoned them just like all "Gods". From her father, she had inherited the Chase, her slight stature and fine features, and from her mother's blood, blonde hair and grey eyes which stood out.

Annabeth sought his limp hand amongst the bed clothes and gripped it, and the King opened his eyes. She leant forward. "Papa? Papa, it's me." His gasping breaths quieted. "Annabeth, my child." His eyes roamed over her face.

"Papa, you must not die. I do not want you to die."  
His hand grasped hers. "I am sorry, little one. Be happy, Annabeth. Do not let anyone take that from you. Trust Pervor, he will guide you and take care of you. I go to join your grandmother."  
"No! Papa!" Her tears overflowed as his eyes closed, and his breath left him in a long sigh. She flung herself onto his chest and embraced him, sobs racking her. A sigh came from the King's retainers, and a doctor approached and pressed his fingers to the King's neck.

After several moments, he proclaimed, "The King is dead. Long live the Queen." There was a rustle of rich cloth as the retainers knelt. A firm hand clasped her shoulder. "Come, Your Majesty. He is dead." Annabeth did not recognise the voice, but allowed herself to be tugged away, hardly noticing as she was led to her room.

Annabeth's ladies-in-waiting dressed her in a white satin gown, its bodice adorned with intricate patterns of seed pearls and its gossamer sleeves sewn with tiny diamonds. Her silken tresses were teased into glossy bangs and swept up into a regal coif sparkling with jewelled pins and fine gold chains. Diamonds flashed on her fingers, wrists and neck. Teardrop pearls dripped from her earlobes, and the diamond-studded silver mesh pinned to the back of her hair fell around her neck like a raindewed cobweb.

Her ladies praised her beauty, but were forced to rub berry juice onto her cheeks and lips, reminding her of a lamb being prepared for slaughter.

For ten days, the kingdom had mourned its King's death, none more than Annabeth. Her father had lain in state, mourners filing past to pay their last respects. He had been interred in the royal tomb beside his mother, and Annabeth was alone, an orphan at sixteen, barely of age. Pervor watched over her with the fervour of a broody hen, dogging her footsteps with unending advice. Her principal lady-in-waiting offered a plump, motherly shoulder on which to weep, and it was often damp.

Now, ten days after the funeral, Annabeth's coronation was about to take place in her father's throne room. The priests and nobles awaited her in the long, banner-hung throne room with its high roof and polished slate floor. Battle trophies, coats of arms and suits of armour told the tale of her ancestors' glory days.

The three rulers of the neighbouring kingdoms raked her with cold, calculating eyes when she entered. They were there to vie for her hand in marriage, and her extreme youth and beauty clearly pleased them. She was not the prize, though. They wanted to annex her kingdom for the duration of the marriage and profit from it.

Her father's last words echoed in her mind as she was led towards the throne, hardly aware of the courtiers who bowed as she passed. For Annabeth, the ceremony was a blur of droning speeches and tuneless hymns.

She held the things that were placed in her hands, not caring what they were, and repeated the words she was asked to, all the while remembering her father's gaunt, tired face. As the cold weight of the crown settled upon her brow, she vowed to obey her father's last wish.

The eyes of the three kings crawled over her like slugs. Everywhere she looked, she met calculating gazes, plotting, weighing, seeking her mettle.

She raised her chin in proud defiance of their judgement, and the scheming eyes slid away with cunning glints. Even at her coronation, enemies surrounded her. Her life was poised to plunge into a dark sea of intrigue and plots, and the prospect terrified her.

**_Author's note:_**

**_Hi! guys this will be my second story in fanfic hope to outshine my previous story, I know have been absent like forever now, Sorry about that, But the good news am gonna continue my other story too!_**

**_So hope fully u enjoy this story, beacuse this Idea had been in my mind for a while now...And CHICA'S dont forget to review!_**

**_Love you all guys...Though I haven't been writing had been following your stories...very closely and u guys are too Awesome!_**

**_Signing out now over n out_**

**_Confusion-123_**


	2. Chapter 1

_**Enjoy the chapter Guys! Title of this has been changed Cyborg series book one & am still not sure with the Title if you have any ideas for title Please do PM me or write in reviews,**_

_**Discalimer: I own Nothing!**_

Chapter One

Annabeth gazed across the darkening land as the sun's afterglow faded. The distant forest grew gloomier by the minute, and she shivered, wishing the strange wizard, Albaster, had not insisted that she meet him there alone tonight. The forest, with its huge, gnarled trees, frightened her. Legends abounded of werewolves that dwelt in its dark depths and emerged at night to hunt.

Turning from the dusky vista, Annabeth scanned the battlements. The sentries' armour glinted in the light of newly kindled torches. They stood like statues, their faces blank, but for all she knew they could have been the cook's cousins, since there were so few of her trained soldiers left. Most had perished over the last two months. She wondered how long it would take for the last remnants of her once-great army to lose hope and flee before they too were slaughtered on the battlefield. 

Deserters had been fleeing the castle for days now, vanishing from their posts in the dead of night. Three months had passed since her father's death, and she still missed him terribly. She now ruled the largest and most beautiful of the five kingdoms, and was the prey of the three unwed kings' ambition to rule Aulis. 

They had come courting, and Annabeth shuddered as she recalled their bungling attempts to impress her. Fat, bearded Ethan, who smelt of wine and dogs. Old, widowed Grisson, thin and lecherous, who sucked at his food with a toothless mouth. The memory soured her stomach. All her hopes had rested upon the young, handsome King Marcus most favoured son of Ares, the only one she had even considered, until she had found out that he was a rapist and woman beater. 

The unwholesome glint in his eyes had become obvious when she had been informed of his true nature. Her principal lady-in-waiting, Lady Royanne, had told her tearfully, aware that she was dashing the young Queen's hopes for a happy marriage. During his stay at Castle Chase, Marcus had attacked one of the serving maids, and his retinue had spread surreptitious whispers of his appetites. 

The rumours were not supposed to reach Annabeth, but Royanne was an able spy, unearthing anything potentially harmful to her monarch. Annabeth sighed, her eyes sweeping the night-shrouded land. The law said that she must have a husband of noble blood, and the kings could force her to wed one of them if she did not choose a suitable spouse. 

They had pointed that out repeatedly, and, since the only available prince was Prince Luke of Olgara, her choice was limited. Olgara was a poor kingdom bordering the Badlands that relied on trade to survive, and it could not jeopardise its alliances with the other kingdoms, also rumored as he was son of hades. However Prince Luke had not offered suit, and King Alessandro, his step brother, had sent only a letter of condolence. 

She wanted none of the three available kings, however, and had told them so. Marcus had been the most outraged, swearing to tear down her castle and drag her to the altar by her hair, as the law allowed. In desperation, Annabeth sent invitations to all the unwed noblemen in her kingdom of marriageable age. 

All but one had declined, and he, a young lord from the southern part of her kingdom, had been waylaid and killed, apparently by highwaymen. She knew the three kings had used threats and blackmail to prevent the other noblemen from accepting her invitation, and in the case of the bravest, had resorted to murder. In the face of this bold treachery, she could do nothing but reiterate her refusal of their offers and weather the storm that followed. 

Marcus had sent men to kidnap her from her bedroom, but they had been discovered and executed after confessing their mission. In a fury of fear and defiance, Annabeth had mobilised her soldiers to defend her borders, preventing spies and would-be kidnappers entering. After she had foiled two more attempts with these tactics, Marcus had joined with the other kings to fight their way to her castle and carry her off by force. 

So the war had started, and, although her army had rallied to her call and her lords fought bravely, she was losing. Three armies stood against her, united in their purpose and agreed amongst themselves that the first to reach her side would win her hand and rule Aulis. Pervor had begged her to wed Marcus and end the conflict, but Annabeth was adamant that she would not be forced to wed a rapist. In her darkest hour, when it seemed that all was lost and she would end up as a battle prize, the old advisor had told her of the magician Albaster's promise to her father. The mage's weapon was designed to destroy the Death Zone and put an end to the monsters that came from it to ravage towns in Aulis, but such a weapon might also help her to win the war. 

Turning back to the battlements, she gripped the cold rock and gazed into the darkness. Albaster's promise of help gave her a vestige of hope, for he was a wise and powerful mage. The weapon he had promised her father must be fearsome indeed if it could win the war. She had sworn to die in battle before marrying any of the vile kings. Then her cousin, a weedy boy of twelve, would inherit, and her uncle would be regent until her cousin was sixteen. Raising her chin, she caressed her sword's chill hilt. She was a warrior queen. She would fight for her right to be free and choose her husband. 

The last shreds of light faded from the sky with the closing of a fist of darkness. Annabeth pulled her fur coat around her as the night air nipped at her skin. A cold breeze had sprung up from the east, laden with the scent of earth and vegetation. Shivering, she walked along the battlements to the stairway that led down to the courtyard where her horse waited.  
Stony-faced guards watched her pass, their eyes glittering as they tracked her movement. If they had opinions on the rash course she had set herself, they knew better than to air them within range of Royanne's sharp ears.

Deserters slipped away in the night, fleeing the coming bloodbath. The crippled guard captain, lacking an eye and half of his face from a sword cut many years before, kept tally of the dwindling men and informed her daily of their numbers. 

He did not offer to hunt down the defectors, his reticence informing her that he did not blame them for their cowardice. She did not, either. It was cruel to ask men to lay down their lives merely to keep their queen from a marriage she did not want. In a land where women were little more than chattel, a queen reigning alone was unheard of, and to most, her decision to fight must seem worse than folly. 

The head groom bowed as she approached, offering her the reins of her iron-grey charger, a warhorse of the highest calibre trained to kill with teeth and hooves. Falcon snorted, his ears twitching, and she stroked his muzzle when he snuffled her. A mounting block was put in place, and she swung into the saddle, gathering up the slack in the reins as he pranced and sidestepped. 

Falcon stood eighteen hands tall, his steel-shod hooves the size of soup plates, a behemoth of muscle clad in plates of armour. He was not the sort of horse that could be ridden side saddle, and she rode astride, the split skirt of her royal blue riding habit allowing her to do so. 

"Open the gates!" the head groom shouted as Falcon paced towards the portcullis, his hooves striking sparks from the courtyard's cobblestones. 

The portcullis rose with a rumble of chains, and the drawbridge beyond descended. The captain watched her pass, his disapproval of her solo, nocturnal jaunt clearly written on his scarred visage. 

Falcon thundered across the drawbridge at an eager canter, defying her control. Once off the drawbridge, she let him have his head, his muscles surging beneath her as the cold wind tore her hair from its pins. She revelled in the freedom of the wild gallop, wishing she never had to return to her father's castle and the incessant, losing war with its inevitable tragic conclusion. 

Slowing Falcon to a bouncing canter, she turned him towards the wood. The stallion fought her with good natured spirit, both of them knowing he could defy her if he chose. The trees loomed ahead, and Annabeth prayed that Albaster would be waiting. As they entered the forest, she slowed the mettlesome charger to a walk, only the crunch of leaves under his hooves breaking the breathless hush. 

The largest of the three moons had risen by the time she reached the glade with its ring of stones, flooding it with silver light. She reined Falcon in and stroked his thick, arched neck while he fidgeted, alert to every whisper of sound. An owl's hoot startled her as the winged shape flitted between the trees in search of prey. Her eyes darted amongst the ominous shadows that seemed to move and creep in the moonlight. 

Annabeth slumped when a white-robed figure emerged from the trees and walked into the centre of the ring of stones. Albaster's hooded robe covered all but his pale hands, and the hood's deep shadows hid his face. She guided Falcon over to him, and he stroked the warhorse's velvet muzzle while she dismounted. Although she had never seen his face, she had trusted him since her father had introduced him eight years ago, and he had not betrayed her.

The villagers spoke of strange lights in the sky when Albaster visited, but his aloof demeanour did not encourage questions. He had given her a wealth of advice and taught her a great deal about life and politics, however. 

"Well met, Majesty," he greeted her in his soft, strangely accented voice.  
"How goes your war?"  
"Badly. I rejoice to see you again. Have you been well?"  
His head dipped. He never bowed to her, but always appeared respectful. "I am well, Majesty. I hope you are also in good health." She sighed a cloud of steam. "I despair. I am losing this war, and that I will not accept. Before any of those three foul kings lock me in his castle, I shall kill myself. I fear that time approaches." 

"I did advise you against this many years ago, did I not? Do you remember my telling you not to start a war you could not win? Truly you have disappointed your teacher, little one."  
"What would you have me do? Wed that rapist monster, or one of the doddering fools?"  
"Indeed, your options are not the best. You could abdicate in favour of your cousin and put an end to their plotting, but I know you would not consider such a move, although to die with your soldiers seems rather extreme. It is not too late to reconsider." She shook her head. "I shall not be defeated except by death. That at least is honourable."  
"Ah, and teach the kings a lesson, no doubt. Such pride is foolish, but you are too young to know the folly of your words. You will not realise how final death is until you stare into its face and feel the cold touch of fear."  
"Your words are cruel. Have you no other solution to offer? Pervor said you would help me."

"Do not despair, My Queen. I have the answer to your troubles."  
"You are indeed a great wizard. What have you found?"

"I originally purchased it for your father, may his soul rest in peace. He asked for my help to deal with the Death Zone, and the weapon I have brought was for this purpose. But it will serve you just as well in your need, after which you may send it into the Death Zone to complete that mission. 

It resides in your dungeons, where I have conjured it. I searched the universe for this thing, and it cost much, yet I am happy for you to use it. When your war is won and the Death Zone destroyed, I shall return for it, but until then, it is yours."  
"What is it?"  
"You will see that for yourself, but do not doubt that it will defeat your enemies, no matter what you may think. Do not be deceived by its appearance. It is a powerful weapon." Annabeth disliked the mystery, but Albaster had always been an enigma. "Thank you, good wizard, your help is much needed and appreciated. I trust your judgement, and if you say this thing is the answer to my troubles, it must be so. Take this as a token of my gratitude." She slid a ring from her finger, set with a green-streaked blue stone, and held it out. 

Albaster's slender fingers closed around it like a spider clasping its prey, and he raised it to the light to examine it. "I require no payment, My Queen, but I shall treasure this gift since it is you who gave it." Annabeth smiled, turning away to find a suitable stone to use as a mounting block. "I must hurry back. I am curious about your gift, and it is not safe for me here."  
Albaster pocketed the ring. "In your dungeon, you will find a casket. Press the button on its side, and within a few moments it will open and your new weapon will be revealed. I must leave, so you will not see me for a while. When I return, your war will be over and the Death Zone destroyed." 

The wizard turned and sauntered into the forest, vanishing amongst the shadows as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. Annabeth stared after him, then led Falcon to a rock and mounted, guiding him along the faint, moon-silvered trail that snaked between the trees like a tarnished serpent, dappled with flecks of shadow. The dark forest's silence pressed in upon her, oppressive and pregnant with unknown dangers. 

As she neared its edge, Falcon tossed his head and pranced, ignored her soothing murmurs and communicated his unease. She wanted to give him his head and race from the wood, but good sense prevailed, for an overhanging branch was too likely to sweep her from the saddle. The shadows took on a sinister air, and every looming tree seemed like a dark warrior with woody hands outstretched. 

Black figures burst from the undergrowth and leapt into her path, naked swords gleaming in their fists. Falcon stopped, trembling as he awaited her command. A suave, smug voice spoke from the darkness beside her, making her jump and whip around. 

"So, my pretty, it seems I have won. There is no escape. You are now mine." Marcus stepped from the forest, a smirk on his strong-featured face, which, although considered handsome, was somewhat coarse. 

She forced a smile and spoke in a gasping voice. "You overcome me, Marcus. I knew you would be the one to win my hand, and I am glad to be proven right."  
"So this was all to test my mettle? How romantic. I approve, my dear Annabeth. I had not known that you were the type of woman to sacrifice four thousand men to test your suitor." He chuckled. Annabeth quelled a shudder. "My palfrey trembles with fear, and I think he may bolt if your men do not hold him." Marcus eyed the warhorse. "He is a goodly size for a palfrey, and armoured too."  
"And yet a palfrey is all he is, for you know full well no mere woman could ride a warhorse, although his appearance is intended to mislead those too slow of wit to realise this." The King hesitated, then signalled to his men, who approached, lowered their swords and reached for Falcon's reins. As soon as they were near enough, Annabeth loosed the reins, grasped the pommel and shouted, "Falcon, attack!" The stallion reared with a squeal, his forefeet lashing out to strike two soldiers, smashing them to the ground. 

As he dropped to all fours he lunged, sank long yellow teeth into a third man, lifted him and flung him into the trees like a rag doll, trailing an agonised scream. Annabeth clung to the saddle as he spun and kicked, two solid thuds testifying to his accuracy. "It's a warhorse!" a man yelled, and the circle of soldiers closed, their blades flashing towards the stallion. Falcon reared again, propelled himself forwards with a powerful thrust of his hind legs and smashed two more men down with steel-shod hooves. A sword clanged against his armour-clad shoulder in a shower of sparks, and he staggered. Annabeth drew her sword with a hiss of steel, slashing at the dodging men. Falcon kicked again, but more men streamed from the woods, too many for a scouting party. 

Gathering up her reins, she urged Falcon forward, overriding the command to fight. The stallion plunged ahead, thrust men aside and squealed as a sword inflicted a gash in his flank. He kicked in retaliation, then they were beyond the soldiers, galloping through the wood. 

Annabeth crouched as trees whipped past. Branches lashed her, scratched her skin and ripped her clothes. Hoof beats thundered behind her, and she glanced back at the party of horsemen. Marcus's roars goaded them after her. 

She clung to Falcon's mane, praying a branch would not scrape her from his back. Falcon crashed through the forest, his hooves sliding on the treacherous leaves, almost sending him skidding into a tree. They burst into the open with Marcus's cavalrymen close behind, their faster mounts gaining on the warhorse. As they drew alongside, one reached for her reins. 

Falcon lunged at him, knocking his horse down. Man and beast rolled in a tangled heap, and Falcon turned his head to snap at the horse on the other side, making it shy. Annabeth struck at the rider who drew alongside to replace the one who had fallen, her sword bouncing off his armour. The man hacked at Falcon's neck, cutting a gash. The stallion squealed again, lashing out sideways with his hind feet. 

The blow snapped the other horse's front leg with a crack, and it ploughed head-first into the ground. The warhorse was tiring fast. His wounds sapped his strength and his blood splattered her face. Ahead, men ran from the castle, alerted by lookouts to the Queen's peril. 

Two of her knights thundered across the drawbridge, armour flashing. One of her enemies darted closer and raked Falcon's flank with his sword, trying to cut her girth. 

The weapon narrowly missed her leg, slipping under it. The stallion kicked, sending the cavalry horse staggering away, but Annabeth's saddle slid back. Grasping handfuls of Falcon's mane, she pulled her feet from the stirrups and let the saddle fall. 

Another rider closed, his sword aimed at Falcon's hamstrings. _**"Kick!"**_ Annabeth bellowed, and the warhorse obeyed, smashing the sword from the soldier's hand. Annabeth urged him on as her knights reached her, engaging Marcus's soldiers in a clash of steel. She thundered over the drawbridge, and her enemies fled from her knights, their prey out of reach. 

Falcon's hooves skidded on the courtyard's stones as he propped to a standstill, steam rolling up his heaving flanks. Annabeth slid off, her legs trembling as she clung to his sweaty, blood-streaked neck. 

She leant against him, patted him and murmured soft words of gratitude into his twitching ears. The clatter of hooves and boots echoed around the yard as her knights and warriors returned, the portcullis rumbling down behind them. A groom led Falcon away, and she noted that the stallion was lame, casting a worried look at her head groom.

_**"Tend to his wounds at once."**_

He bowed. _**"Of course, Majesty."**_

Annabeth marched into the castle and headed for the dungeons, but one of her knights confronted her before she reached the stairway "Majesty, we have driven them off for now, but a large force is camped beyond the wood, and I fear that tomorrow they will lay siege." Annabeth eyed Sir Duxon, whose beard was streaked with grey and waist thickening with age. 

He had been a good knight once, but now he was one of the few survivors only because he was over cautious, and would probably be useless at the final battle. He had been sent back from the front two weeks ago with the message that her army was losing, and had without a scratch on him. 

Duxon valued his life too much to be a good knight. Perhaps it was because of the brood of ten children his plump wife raised on his modest estate, but Annabeth did not want him beside her at the last. He was more likely to hand her over to Marcus to save his skin than he was to die fighting to protect her. 

In his opinion, a woman's purpose was to serve a man and bear his children, and, although he had served her father faithfully, she did not trust him.  
She made no attempt to hide her contempt. "Fear not, Duxon, I have a new weapon. We will win this war."

He looked startled. _**"Of what nature, My Queen?"  
**_

"_**You will see."**_ She swept past him, glancing down at herself with a grimace. Blood splattered her__clothes and her hair was a tangled mane, but she wanted to investigate her new weapon at once. In__the corridor, two ladies-in-waiting rushed out from that shadowy, mysterious place where servants__waited to spring upon their masters and mistresses, begging her to bathe and change her garb. 

Annabeth__waved them away, grabbing a handkerchief that one fluttered to mop the blood from her face. A few strides further on, a tall, grey-robed figure stepped into her path, forcing her to stop.

_**"Yes, Pervor?"  
**_

Her father's chief advisor bowed. _**"You met the wizard, My Queen?"**_

_**"I did."**_

_**"What of the weapon he promised?"**_

"_**He told me that it now resides in the dungeon."  
**_

"_**Ah. Allow me to accompany you."  
**_

"_**If you must."**_ She scowled at him, resenting the way he intimidated her. Maybe it was his air of aged wisdom, or his gaunt, cadaverous face, but most likely it was his great height, towering over her at two metres tall. All men were taller than her, but Pervor managed to loom more. 

Turning into the doorway that led to the dungeons, she surprised a sleepy guard, who snapped awake, belatedly trying to salute as he seized a lantern and hurried after her. She descended the worn steps, Pervor close behind her, the guard trying to keep up, his lantern swinging. 

The old advisor opened the first door, and she peered into an empty cell. They continued along corridor in this fashion, and at the fifth door, the lantern's light fell on a smooth grey casket. The guard exclaimed and tried to move past her, but she raised a hand and took the lantern from him. 

"_**Wait outside."**_

"Majesty, that thing could be dangerous!"  


Annabeth scowled at him. _**"Wait in the corridor."  
**_The guard obeyed with a worried glance at the casket, and she entered the cell, closing the door._**  
**_

Pervor lighted the torches on the walls from the lantern. A thin layer of straw covered the floor, and__the walls bore the scratches of doomed men striving to leave their mark. 

The gleaming casket__appeared to be made from moulded glass. It was at least two metres long, about a metre high and__eighty centimetres wide, shaped like a coffin. A square button marred its flawless surface halfway__along its length, next to which were three dark crystals, one red, one yellow, and one green._**  
**_

"_**Push the button,"**_ she whispered, remembering Albaster's instructions. She did so, then stepped__back when the red crystal lighted. It stayed on for perhaps ten minutes. Just as she was growing__impatient, the red light went off and the yellow one came on. This crystal stayed on for only about__five minutes, then the green one lighted. With a faint whir and click, the lid rose slightly, a black line__appearing around its edge. Mist flowed from the crack, cascading onto the floor. She took a deep__breath, mastering her fear. Albaster would not betray her.__Fitting her fingers into the crack, she raised the lid. Mist billowed up, and she waited for it to__settle. Inside, on a bed of white satin, lay a near-naked man.

Annabeth scowled, wondering if this was__Albaster's idea of a joke. Pervor stared at the strange man, his eyes intent._**  
**_

"_**This is a not a weapon. It is just a man," **_she said.__The advisor glanced at her. "He must be a mighty warrior, My Queen. A magical one, perhaps?"_**  
**_

Annabeth studied the stranger. A frame of golden metal held a black crystal that curved around his__brow, no more than three centimetres wide and fifteen centimetres long, its rounded ends not quite__reaching his hairline. 

A tiny amber light flashed at regular intervals in one corner of it, then more__points of light appeared in the brow band's crystal, flashing red, then green, some continuing to flash__while others maintained a steady glow. Within seconds, the man opened thickly-lashed, alluring green__eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. He had a sculpted, hawk-like face with a narrow, nose looked like it was chiseled out of stone and level dark brows. His well-shaped mouth was set in a firm, almost grim line, and his ears__lay flat against his skull, from which most of the dark black hair had been shorn. His smooth golden__skin gleamed like the satin on which he lay._**  
**_

Annabeth leant over him. "Do you hear me?"__The man's lips parted, and he spoke in a husky voice. "Yes."_**  
**_

"Who are you?"_****_

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Dun dun du!**_

_**A/n :: Did I just end the chappie with a cliff hanger!  
HAHAHAHAHA...B-)**_

_**Now that was a long chapter...,Well chica's am still waiting for the first reviewer for this story, **_

_**I have changed the Title though Samporgk series to Cyborg series many people were yet to catch the meaning, However it still means same thing as in greek Cyborg is reffered as "Samporgk", anyways am still not sure with the title as this title was Inspired by Cybernetic Heroes by Thesuslives one of powerful & one of the well known authors of PJO fanfic.**_

_**Time for shoutouts!**_

_**I would like to appreciate Blidgen Bug & peaceful Pegasus for following my story!hopefully m strong to continue if u keep up the support guys,**_

_**To everyone who viewed my story thanks for spending your few mins of time on my story I hope didn't dissapoint u much**_

_**Anyway you lazy folks would appreciate very much if i can get one or two reviews atleast on this chapter i have put a lot of effort on this chapter.**_

_**Your loving Author signing-off  
Confusion-123.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: I own Nothing!**_

Chapter Two

"A cyber." 

"A sabre?" Annabeth quelled a bitter laugh. "Stand up." The man moved slowly at first, sitting up, then rose to his feet a little stiffly and stepped from the casket. Annabeth's cheeks warmed at his lack of clothing. His skin-tight silken shorts reached to midthigh, but despite her embarrassment her eyes roamed over him. 

He had a tatto on right forearm as "Jackson" in ancient greek and possessed a lean, whipcord build with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips above powerful thighs, every muscle prominent. Even relaxed, lean muscle ridged his belly and padded his shoulders and arms. Although he topped her by at least fifteen centimetres, Annabeth was a diminutive one and a half metres, so the stranger was only about one point eight metres tall, a short man. The aged and bent Duxon would top him by several centimetres, and Pervor towered over him. 

He ignored her scrutiny as blithely as he did her presence, which she found almost as irksome as his expressionlessness. "Where are your clothes?" she asked, annoyed by his lack of decorum and passive stance. The man bent and stripped away the satin within the casket's lid, revealing a plethora of paraphernalia. When he was dressed in a pair of snug-fitting dark grey trousers, a matching vest and narrow black boots, he donned a sort of harness that held many strange items, mostly metallic. 

Finally, he snapped a bulky silver bracelet or wrist guard around his right wrist, then became immobile, staring into space. She peered at him, intrigued by the metal contrivance on his brow. The strange brow band appeared to be affixed to his head by three prongs that entered his skin. She gazed into his eyes, trying to fathom what sort of man he was. He stared over her head. 

"Why did Albaster give you to me?" she asked. "This is a cyber-bio combat unit, grade A, serial number XCA-6352-JY9019, trained in armed and unarmed combat, tactical warfare -"  
"Stop! I understand none of this gibberish. Does Albaster think one warrior can win the war?  
This is a joke!" Pervor cleared his throat. "The mage sent him to deal with the Death Zone, Majesty, he only -"  
Annabeth snorted. "I am not worried about the Death Zone now. I have a more pressing problem outside the castle walls. 

Albaster said that this man would be able aid with that also."  
"Then I am sure he shall, Majesty."  
"How? What difference can one man make?"  
"He must have magic."  
"Magic!" She threw up her hands. "I need a weapon, not magic! Illusions and flashes of light will not frighten Marcus." Annabeth glowered at the stranger. "Do you have magic, warrior?"  
"Usage of term unknown. Clarify."  
"You see, Pervor? He has never even heard of magic! What am I to do now?" The old advisor shook his head. "Trust in the Son of hectate, My Queen."  
"Ha! What of you?" She turned to the stranger again. "Have you nothing to say? Tomorrow Marcus's army will attack this castle. What will you do?"  
"If ordered, fight," he stated tonelessly. 

Annabeth swung away to pace. "One more to die in the mud! Albaster has failed me. Tomorrow I will surely die."  
The stranger's silence annoyed Annabeth, who stopped in front of him and poked him in the chest. 

"Sabre, you lack manners. When you address me, it is as 'Majesty', or 'My Queen'. Do you understand?"  
"Understood."  
"Now tell me who and what you are."  
"This is a cyber-bio combat unit, grade A, -"  
"Enough!" she snapped. "Do not spout that drivel to me. I do not know what a… sabre-bio unit is. I have a war to be won, and Albaster assured me that you could win it, but I fail to see how! What good is one more warrior?"  
"This unit will fight as ordered." Annabeth snorted again. "So will all my soldiers! What is so special about you?"  
"This is a cyber-bio combat -"  
The Queen cut him off with a curt gesture. "Are you an idiot? Have I not just told you not to spout that rubbish to me? Albaster must have rocks in his head." She turned away, thinking of the army camped around her castle, just waiting for dawn to attack. "You will stay here. Food and water will be provided. Understand?"  
"Understood."  
Annabeth shot Pervor a disgusted look and left, ordering the guard outside to bring food and water. 

The soldier gaped at the stranger, then went to do as she bid. "What are your orders?" Pervor asked the strange warrior. 

He turned his head towards the advisor. "On command, seek the area known as the Death Zone and destroy it."  
"I know you are programmed to obey me as well as the Queen, so be ready for new orders."  
"Understood."  
Pervor extinguished some of the torches before leaving, passing the returning guard. Annabeth traversed the cold corridors to her suite and paced around it, angry and afraid.

A fire blazed in the gemereye fireplace, making the green stones glow. Thick woollen rugs muffled her steps, and her hunting dogs slunk from the tapestry-hung room, sensing her foul mood. She had only five hundred and seventy soldiers in the castle, and two knights. The rest of her army had gone to fight the three kings. Since Marcus was on her doorstep, they had been routed and probably slaughtered, her generals captured or dead. Tomorrow, Marcus would demand her surrender, but she would fight and die with her men, by her own hand if necessary. She was in a poor tactical position. Her castle's defences were good, but three armies would overwhelm them. 

Annabeth wondered why Albaster had given her the man in the dungeon. She needed several thousand like him, at least. She did not know what she had been expecting, something magical perhaps, but certainly more than one man. She paced until the candles spluttered, then lay on her huge canopied bed and closed her eyes. 

A lady-in-waiting's hysterical cries roused Annabeth when the woman ran into the Queen's bedchamber.  
"Majesty! Majesty! King Marcus attacks! We are doomed!" Annabeth sat bolt upright, finding herself still dressed in her blood-stained riding clothes. 

She rubbed bleary eyes as the woman wept and ran around the room, flapping her hands. Tiring of the racket, Annabeth rose and grabbed the hysterical girl, putting an end to her shrieks with a slap. The girl gasped, sagged and snivelled, clutching her cheek. 

Faint sounds of battle came from outside, distant shouts and screams mingled with the clash of arms and hiss of arrows. The castle walls had prevented the noise waking her, and she cursed. Her knights, it seemed, preferred her to stay abed while they fought, perhaps hoping Marcus would wake her when he claimed his bride. Why did they not just roll out a red carpet and invite him in?  
A knock came at the door, and Royanne entered, her round, motherly face pale but composed, her brown hair confined in a frilly white mobcap and her generous figure clad in a dull green gown with yellow lace on the sleeves. "Are you well this morning, My Queen?"  
"No. I am awakened by a brainless female with hysterics to find my castle besieged, and no one even thought to wake me when it started. When did it start?"  
"Just before dawn."  
"And of course it is not going well." Royanne shook her head. "There are too many of them."  
"Oh, god." Annabeth sat on the bed and covered her face. "Will you have some breakfast, My Queen?"  
"How can you think of breakfast at a time like this?"  
"You still have to eat. A bath and a new dress will make you feel better." Royanne tilted her head at the snivelling girl, who scurried out.  
"And smell better when Marcus claims me?" Annabeth enquired. Royanne sat beside her, sliding a plump arm around her shoulders. "Now, now. If you accept one of the others, Marcus will have to withdraw."  
"How nice. A husband who sleeps with his hounds, as well as every wench in his kingdom, or one so old that he sucks up his food through a tube and is seldom sober. A good choice."  
"Better than one who will ravish and beat you."  
Annabeth sighed. "I would rather marry a peasant."  
"Don't be like that, my dear."  
"Did you love your husband when you married him?"  
Royanne nodded. "Of course."  
"So why can I not marry for love?"  
"Because you are a queen, little one."  
Annabeth rubbed her eyes. "It is not fair."  
"Life seldom is."  
The young Queen rose, squaring her shoulders. "I am going to see what is happening outside."  
"You should stay here, Majesty. It's not safe out there."  
"I do not care."  
Pulling on a fur-lined jacket, she left Royanne gazing after her and marched down the corridor that led to the battlements, ignoring the frantic cries of the four ladies-in-waiting who crowded it. 

When she pushed open the door at the top of the last set of stairs, the sights, sounds and smells of the battle almost overwhelmed her, forcing her to pause. A distant roar underscored the shouts and crashes of combat close at hand, and crimson splattered the castle's stones. She stepped out into the cold dawn wind, where a sky that blushed pink with bright streaks of sunrise bathed a grisly scene with crisp light. The green-liveried bodies of dozens of her soldiers sprawled on the battlements, arrows sprouting from many of them. Some still groaned and twitched, others lay still. The stench of death and smoke fouled the air. 

Annabeth almost slipped on the blood-slimed stones as she headed for Sir Duxon, who issued orders to his captains while arrows hissed overhead. A wall of soldiers held the attackers at bay, defending the doorway through which she had just emerged. Sir Malcolm stood beside Duxon, his tall, slender frame resplendent in polished armour. Malcolm had been her father's champion and was now hers, the finest knight in all the land, sharp of eye and mind, strong and loyal. She had first seen him on the summer's day when he had won a jousting competition and her father had knighted him. He was now thirty, a quiet man whose skill with sword and lance had earned him the respect of his peers and the awe of the masses. 

Malcolm turned pale grey eyes upon her and bowed, sweeping her dirty garb with a warm glance. His eyes twinkled as he smiled, his helmet hiding the rest of his face, which, she recalled, a broken nose and a habit of cocking one brow made raffish. Gore streaked his armour and a bloody sword dangled from one fist. Sir Duxon, by contrast, was unsullied, his weapon still in its scabbard. 

Bitterness tinged Duxon's faded brown eyes as he dismissed his captains and bowed. She surveyed the carnage. A desperate battle was being lost on the walls, where Marcus's red-liveried soldiers swarmed up notched tree trunks and makeshift ladders, pouring onto overcrowded battlements. A seething melee of sword-swinging men surged back and forth, stabbing and slashing with wild abandon. 

The clash of steel was almost deafening, and the sheer brutality of their struggle chilled her stomach and made it squirm. Her men fought savagely, but the attackers swamped them, forcing them to give ground. Even as she watched, a dozen of her soldiers fell, adding to the piles of dead already littering the bloody stones. Wondering what had happened to the moat, she went to the crenulations and peered down. A section was filled in, and the invaders mounted ladders from this platform. The area was a quagmire, but men rushed about with buckets and barrows, dumping fresh soil to harden the ground. Her archers were too busy to shoot the sappers, their fire concentrated on the enemy warriors on the battlements. She met Duxon's accusing gaze.  
"They did it last night," he said, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the din. "They killed the sentries with crossbows. My Queen, defeat is inevitable, surrender now and save these men."  
"How dare you dictate to me, Duxon? I will not marry a rapist, to be beaten and abused by him."  
"Then marry Grisson. He is an old man. You will be a widow soon enough."  
"Never! He is revolting, toothless! He stinks of age and corruption." Duxon's face sagged into resentful lines. "These men die for your whimsy. When the battle is over, Marcus will have you, for it is he who is outside the gate. Then you will have no choice." Annabeth scowled as an arrow whizzed past, dangerously close. She ignored it, but Duxon flinched. 

Malcolm's soft voice spoke beside her. "It is not your place to speak to the Queen in such a tone, Duxon. It is her choice whether to fight, and your duty to obey."  
"As I do!" Duxon blustered.  
"I have yet to see you draw your blade this morning."  
"My blade will drink enemy blood soon enough."  
"You see no folly in my choice, then?" she asked Malcolm.  
"Majesty, the battle is lost, and with it, our lives. Whether this be folly or fate I know not, but we cannot keep you safe."  
"When the castle falls, I shall fight beside my men until I die." She turned back to Sir Duxon. "So shall the last warrior queen perish, Duxon, fighting beside her men for freedom. I will not be a queen in name only, stripped of my power, abused and held prisoner. Marcus will bear the shame of my death, and my cousin will rule. At least Marcus will have no wish to marry him."  
Duxon looked stricken. "You are young and headstrong, Majesty, but death is not the answer. Life is too precious to squander."  
Annabeth raised her chin. "I prefer death to any of those three, and the choice is mine."  
The old knight's despairing expression made his disapproval clear, and Malcolm had the same anguish in his eyes. They plainly longed to save her, and Duxon might give in to the urge, but Malcolm would not. Duxon shook his head at Malcolm, who frowned. 

As Duxon stepped towards her, an arrow thudded into his chest, punching through his armour. He staggered, his eyes widening, then dropped to his knees. Raising his head, he rasped, "Flee, Majesty! Save yourself!" Annabeth stood frozen as Duxon's eyes rolled back and he crashed onto the stones. A pang of sorrow impaled her heart, then her gaze was drawn back to the battle. Men fell screaming as they were hacked down, and swords clashed with vicious metallic clangs or found their mark with meaty thuds. Many of her soldiers broke and ran, only to be cut down from behind. 

The remainder held the invaders at bay at great cost to themselves. The stench of blood and spilt bowels sickened her, and the sight of her men dying enraged her. Annabeth drew her sword and headed for the melee. Malcolm accompanied her, raising his bloody blade. A rumble of chains told her that the drawbridge was down and the invaders who swarmed into the courtyard were winching up the portcullis. 

The castle had fallen and her fate was sealed. 

Pervor stood in the doorway, admiring his queen's determination. Annabeth might be too diminutive to ever be considered a warrior queen, but she did not lack courage. She strode towards the mass of fighting men, her soldiers surrounding her in a wall of slashing steel. 

Malcolm's sword became a silver blur as he hacked and parried, thrust and blocked, bodies piling up at his feet. The sight of the prize spurred the invaders, who fought with renewed vigour, pushing back the defenders. Malcolm staggered as a blade slipped under his guard from behind, piercing his armour. Even the best swordsman could not hope to win against so many. 

The advisor had spent a sleepless night pondering his best course of action, torn between obeying his queen and his late king. She was determined to die rather than marry a man she hated, while King Frederick had only wanted his daughter to be safe and happy. Pervor was reluctant to unleash Albaster's magical warrior because Annabeth would, in all likelihood, hate him for interfering and, if all did not go well, probably have him executed for disobedience. A slight hope that she would see reason when confronted with the battle's bloody slaughter and accept one of the kings had kept him in check, but she clearly intended to go through with her childish threat to kill herself, or try. 

The risk to her life was too great. He must take action, no matter what the consequences. Pervor turned and descended the stairs. In the corridor, scurrying, terrified servants dived into doorways like hunted rabbits. A wailing lady-in-waiting clutched his arm, but he shook her off. He hastened to the dungeons, finding the steps unguarded. Going to the fifth cell, he opened the door. 

The strange warrior stood beside the casket, apparently asleep. His eyes opened, staring through the advisor with a chilling lack of expression. Pervor stopped just inside the door. Albaster had instructed him on how to give orders to the warrior, explaining what he called the weapon's 'set up'. 

He had shown Pervor tiny images of the chief advisor and Annabeth, and played recordings of their voices, which he had claimed would be used to ensure the weapon recognised them. 

Pervor had found the glowing images and disembodied voices somewhat alarming, but his king had ordered him to trust the wizard. The weapon's human form had surprised him, and he had refrained from trying to persuade Annabeth of its true nature, knowing she would find it hard to believe, as, indeed, he did. He did not doubt Albaster's claim, however, especially when the weapon's lack of humanity in all respects other than its appearance bore it out so convincingly. 

He recalled the strange words and manner in which the wizard had directed him to address the warrior.  
"Voice recognition confirmation."  
The brow band flashed. "Voice recognition confirmed. You have level three access."  
"Command override input, password, star fall."  
"Acknowledged. Password accepted."  
"Input: new assignment of bodyguard duty to primary command subject Queen Annabeth Chase. I order you to take the Queen from this castle and protect her. No matter what she says, or how much she protests, this order overrides that. In all other things, you will obey her, but you will not leave her side while there is danger, and you will protect her. Do you understand?"  
"Understood."  
"Go then!" Pervor motioned to the door. "Hurry!" The warrior strode out with lithe, gliding steps, and Pervor followed, falling behind as the cyber broke into a lope down the corridor. 

Annabeth hacked at an enemy soldier, incensed when her sword clanged off his chainmail and Malcolm skewered him instead. She was buffeted from all sides as the attackers pushed back the soldiers who fought to defend her. The knot of men around her dwindled fast, their blood slicking the stones. 

Malcolm bled profusely from a wound in his side, and his helmet was dented. Annabeth thrust her sword into an enemy's face, gladdened and sickened when he fell back with a scream. 

Her resolve to die with a sword in her hand warred with the fear that coiled in her gut. She cried out as Malcolm fell, a spear protruding from his side. He cut down his killer as he collapsed, and his eyes met hers for a heart stopping moment before they closed. The loss of her champion enraged and distressed her, and she flung herself into the fight with reckless abandon. 

A flash of brilliant blue light made her flinch as a hot beam shot past her. Several enemy soldiers fell screaming and writhing, smoke pouring from their tunics, their armour sizzling, and the rest recoiled. Her soldiers drew aside with shouts of confusion and fear, and she turned to face the source of the hot blue light. 

The blank-faced warrior from the casket strode towards her, thrusting aside her men, who gaped at him. She became aware that her mouth was open and closed it, but before she could enquire as to just exactly what he thought he was doing, he reached her. His left hand shot out and gripped the front of her jacket, yanking her towards him as he turned and dragged her away from her men. They closed in behind her to prevent the invaders from following, although they seemed too stunned to act for the moment. She gasped at his effrontery and dug in her heels, but this only made her slip on the bloody stones. 

"Unhand me!" she shrilled.  
"Orders are to remove you from this structure."  
Annabeth struggled, flailing at him. "Damn you, let me go!"  
"Orders are to protect you."  
"Whose orders?" She tried to prise his fingers from her jacket.  
"The human male designated alpha two, able to command, Pervor."  
"I order you to let me go!"  
"Unable to obey. Orders to rescue you override yours." He hauled her towards a doorway that led to the upper battlements, three metres above them. The courtyard was overrun, the last of her soldiers holding the enemy at bay. 

Remembering that she still held a sword, Annabeth swung it at him. His free hand flashed up, gripped the blade, wrenched it from her grip and tossed it aside. She growled as he pulled her alongside him, her jacket digging into the back of her neck. Her stumbling steps could barely keep pace with his long strides, and only his brutal grip on her jacket kept her from falling. 

He shifted his hold to her arm, ignoring her yelp as he trundled her up the steps. She grabbed the corner as he towed her past, and almost got her fingers ripped off for her pains.  
"Let me go, you idiot!" she shouted. "I shall have you flayed..."  
A group of Marcus's men appeared on the stairs above them, swords drawn. 

"...Impaled on a hot spike..." Annabeth gasped as, with a yank that almost dislocated her arm, Sabre thrust her behind him. He raised his other arm, fist clenched, and blue fire spat from his silver bracelet. Two men fell as the beam of searing light sliced into them. Others, whom the beam only clipped, staggered away, beating at their burning clothes. Sabre lowered his arm and continued up the steps. 

The remaining soldiers fled, trailing smoke from their smouldering attire. Annabeth tried to loosen his fingers so blood could resume its flow down her arm, but his hand was like iron. 

"I will have you drawn and quartered, roasted slowly over..." She was yanked around a corner and hauled up another short flight of stairs. "...Hot coals!"  
They entered a corridor, and more men ran towards them with drawn swords. Sabre raised his arm and burnt them with the blue fire without breaking his stride. A group of crimson-clad soldiers emerged from a doorway ahead, blocking their path. An arrow buzzed past her ear as Sabre raised his arm, and blue fire lanced into the men. 

Heavy footsteps behind Annabeth made her glance back and yell as a soldier ran up, a battle axe raised. Sabre spun, almost dragging her off her feet, and his arm chopped into the man's throat with a sickening crunch. The blow flung the soldier back, and he hit the ground with a terrific crash of armour, writhing and clawing at his crushed throat. 

Sabre turned back towards the steps, Annabeth still trying to get her feet under her and free her arm from his merciless grip. He swung, releasing her, and smashed a spear from the air with a lightning-fast punch. Annabeth wondered how he had known it was there, since this time she had not warned him.

Sabre yanked her to her feet, inflicting more bruises. Soldiers converged on them, her proximity to Sabre forcing them to attack him with swords while archers stood idle. Sabre seared them with his magical light, killed some and sent the rest stumbling away, beating at their burning tunics and redhot armour. Their screams echoed through the castle, falling behind as Sabre strode on. 

They reached the upper parapet, and Annabeth wondered what the madman intended to do now: fly? As he headed for the battlements, she drew breath to shout at him to stop, but he took a running jump, dragging her with him. He released her in mid-air, and she let out a wailing scream. 

The cold black moat water hit her hard, punching what little air she had left from her lungs. She sank, struggling, the foul water rushing into her nose and mouth. A hand gripped her arm and pulled her to the surface, where she coughed and spluttered. Sabre waded out of the moat, hauling her after him like an overgrown fish. Annabeth spat dirty water and flailed at him, but he ignored her feeble attempts to hit him. Apparently finding it difficult to drag her, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. 

She spluttered at this further ignominy, pounding on his hard back.  
"Put me down! I order you! You moron! Imbecile!"  
With a smooth movement, he dumped her on her feet, and Annabeth staggered drunkenly before collapsing in a heap. Sabre became immobile, staring into the middle distance as water trickled from his clothes. Annabeth glared up at him, mopped her streaming face and spat out foul moat water.  
"How dare you?" she bellowed. "I do not want to be rescued, you idiot! I would rather die with my soldiers! Just how far do you think we are going to get?"  
"Enemies approach," he said.  
"I will have you gutted for this, and roasted slowly over a fire! Your eyeballs will be impaled on hot pokers, your..."  
Annabeth trailed off as Marcus's soldiers boiled out of the castle, some mounted, the thunder of their steeds' hooves mingling with their triumphant shouts. Her gut went cold, then she remembered the blue fire and glowered at the man who stood beside her. She tried to rise to her feet, but her legs were still rubbery. 

"Well, do not just stand there, idiot! Fight them!" Sabre hoisted her onto his shoulder again and marched away, ignoring her screamed insults and furious blows. If she ever got her hands on Pervor! How dare he send this muscle-bound moron to rescue her? Annabeth raised her head to look back, her hand itching for a sword. When the enemy cavalry was about two hundred metres away, Sabre turned. He raised his arm, and there was a soft pop. 

The earth in front of the chargers exploded with a huge boom. The blast caught some and flung them high, others were sent sprawling. Horses squealed and bolted, throwing their riders, and the charge disintegrated. Sabre turned and loped away, the dripping Queen bouncing on his shoulder. 

Behind them, men milled, while Marcus's furious bellows tried to rally them. More banners approached from the forest, and she recognised Grisson's purple and black colours. A dozen heavily armoured knights broke away from the advancing army and thundered towards her on warhorses. 

Marcus must have seen them, for his shouts became frenzied even though the knights were still distant. His men regrouped, skirted the crater and sprinted after them. 

Again, Sabre waited until they were within two hundred metres, then swung and fired the magical weapon. The explosion went off in their midst, and most were sent sprawling, not to rise again.  
Annabeth grudgingly revised her estimation of the strange warrior. He was indeed magical. Marcus's irate roars summoned another wave of mounted men, and the King leapt onto a spare charger to lead them. 

King Grisson's men closed too, banners flying, racing Marcus to the prize. Grisson would not be amongst them, of course; he was far too old and frail. Most likely, he watched from a sedan chair. 

Marcus's faster cavalry horses soon outstripped the knights, and, as they drew near once more, Sabre turned and raised his arm. Another soft pop heralded an explosion that decimated Marcus's soldiers. Sabre swung away. Evidently Grisson's knights were still too distant. 

Three riderless warhorses galloped from the castle, two bays and a grey. Her lame stallion followed the two mares, and she cursed as they vanished into the forest. Grisson's knights were close now, and yet again Sabre turned, raising his arm. Another great explosion went off in the knights' midst. The warhorses screamed and bucked, some falling, others bolted, riderless. 

Sabre continued at a lope for some distance, then entered a stand of trees, where he stopped and dumped her onto her feet, her legs almost buckling. He turned to survey the carnage he had left in his wake. The warhorses had scattered, leaving their riders wandering on foot, some appearing drunken in their meandering. Another group of Marcus's foot soldiers headed towards them, however. Annabeth wrung stinking moat water from her hair and coat, shivering. 

"Now I will freeze to death!" she said. "Use your magic to dry me." Sabre faced her. "You need transportation."  
"I want a sword in my hand and Marcus's neck within reach! If you wish to leave, do so! Find a horse."  
The crystals on his brow band flashed, and he blinked. "No such animals are within range."  
Annabeth snorted, reviewing her situation. Since she was now safely away from the battle, it seemed prudent to seek assistance. The uncouth idiot's intervention had ruined her plans to die nobly with her men, so the only option was to continue to flee and find help. 

"I shall go to my uncle's castle. He will protect me. There, I will fight again, and this time you will not stop me."  
Annabeth stomped into the forest, anger lending her strength. Sabre watched the soldiers out on the field for a few moments, then caught up with her, his gliding stride deceptive. She eyed him. Any other man would have been tired after carrying her for that distance at that speed, yet Sabre breathed normally. Only a slight film of sweat on his brow showed that he had exerted himself at all. 

He ignored her scrutiny, his eyes fixed ahead of him. Soldiers crashed through the woods behind them, and she increased her pace, puffing. As the soldiers drew nearer, she shot an angry look at Sabre.  
"Destroy the soldiers behind us."  
The cyber loped back the way they had come, vanishing amongst the trees almost at once. Annabeth gave a cry of anger and fear, unexpectedly left alone. Glaring after him, she stamped her foot. How dare he run off and leave her alone and unarmed? She had wanted him to simply blow them up, not run back to them first. She wondered if she should go after him, but he had moved swiftly. 

An eruption of screams made her jump and gasp, shivering in her wet clothes. A few minutes later, Sabre stepped from the undergrowth, startling her again. 

She scowled at him. "How dare you leave me unattended?"  
"Orders were to destroy the enemy." He stared over her shoulder.  
"I did not tell you to leave me!"  
"Enemy was out of range."  
Gritting her teeth, Annabeth trudged through the woods once more, Sabre at her side. Her wet riding boots pinched, and soon she could bear it no longer. She sat on a rock and pulled off the offending footwear. Sabre stood beside her while she inspected the blisters on her feet. 

She looked up at him. "My feet hurt."  
"You require medical attention?"  
"Yes." Annabeth frowned at his strange words. Sabre knelt beside her, angling his head towards her feet. He seemed blind. His plae green eyes stared through her as if she did not exist. Yet how could he manage if he could not see? The crystals in his brow band flashed, and he straightened.  
"The injury is minor."  
Annabeth hissed. The man had absolutely no manners! She was a queen! "It hurts! I cannot walk like this."  
Sabre drew a long knife from a sheath on his harness and reached for Annabeth, who shrank back, startled. He grasped the damp material of her riding habit and cut a long strip out of the skirt. His high-handedness rendered her speechless, and he tore the cloth again, then took hold of her foot and wrapped the material around it. In moments, her feet were wrapped, and her habit had a gaping hole in it. Sabre sheathed the knife and stood up. 

With an effort, Annabeth stifled her anger and pulled her boots on again, finding that her feet no longer hurt. She rose and continued through the forest, looked daggers at Sabre and held together the rent in her riding habit through which an icy draught now blew. The wild woodland made the going hard for Annabeth. Roots tripped her, and briars snagged her clothes and scratched her. 

Unladylike grunts and exclamations of pain marked her progress as she stumbled into trees or banged her head on low branches. Sabre, by contrast, moved through the undergrowth with silent skill, avoiding obstacles with uncanny ease. 

Annabeth hated him more and more. Not only was he rude, but unchivalrous too, making no effort to help her. Sir Malcolm would have been at her side to hold aside branches and help her over obstacles, but not this dolt. She resolved to have him imprisoned when she reached her uncle's estate. He would not interfere with the next battle. 

Uncle Jason was a good man, she reflected, much like her father in looks and manner. He was only a duke, of course, with a small estate, but he had an army and she was sure he would help her to fight the vile kings. She tripped over a root and sprawled, bruising her hands. Sabre waited while she scrambled to her feet, her muscles protesting this unheard-of abuse. Brushing leaves from her skirt, she glanced around. They had reached the edge of a clearing, and she gave a glad cry. Three warhorses grazed in the lush grass with eager jerks of their heads, oblivious to anything other than the delicious herbage. 

"Falcon!"

The stallion raised his head and whinnied, limping towards her. Annabeth ran to him and stroked his muzzle. The two bays were saddled, and trailed broken reins. They had belonged to the Sir Duxon and Sir Malcolm. The head groom must have thought they would be needed, and had had them ready when the invaders had stormed the castle. She patted Falcon, then caught the mares and turned to Sabre, flushed with triumph.  
"I found them. They waited for me."  
Sabre stared across the clearing, and Annabeth raked her tangled hair out of her face and scowled at him. Now that she thought about it, she had been following him. Had he known the horses were here? She dismissed the thought as silly. How could he possibly have known?  
"Can you ride?" she asked.  
"Yes."  
Annabeth passed him one of the mares' reins and hunted for a tree stump or rock from which to mount. Finding none, she turned to Sabre. "Help me mount."  
Sabre helped her into the saddle with casual disregard for the niceties of handling a queen's anatomy. Her indignant yelp went unnoticed, as did her killing glare. Annabeth urged her horse from the clearing, the thought of him hurrying after her a salve to her wounded pride. Moments later, he was at her side, riding with consummate skill. She shot him a venomous look, promising herself a sweeter revenge soon. Falcon followed, his head bobbing as he favoured his injured hind leg. Annabeth set a fast pace along a well-worn path through the forest, eager to outstrip the distant pursuit. 

They reached her uncle's estate at dusk, by which time Annabeth was stiff, cold and miserable in the extreme, a frown wrinkling her brow. Her hair hung in damp rat's tails, she itched from the drying moat water and her damp clothes chafed her tender parts. The stench of the moat's slime clung to her nostrils and fouled her mouth, making her stomach churn. The castle gates stood open, but a sentry stepped out of the guardhouse beside them and blocked the way, crying a challenge. 

Annabeth made an imperious gesture. "Stand aside for Queen Annabeth!"  
The man obeyed just in time to avoid being thrust aside by her warhorse, and they clattered into the courtyard. Annabeth slid from her horse, bruised and weary. Grooms came out to take the animals, and she turned as her uncle approached, his expression concerned. Jason swept her into a bear hug, then held her at arm's length and inspected her, clearly shocked by her bedraggled appearance. 

"You're filthy, and cold! The ladies will run you a warm bath." He swung away and bellowed,  
"Piper!"  
A short, mousy woman with brown eyes and sharp features prodded him in the ribs. She had arrived at his side moments before, unnoticed by his lofty glance. Casting a withering look up at her huge husband, she said, "No need to deafen the whole castle, Jason." She shook her head as she took in Annabeth's dishevelment. "You poor thing! You need a hot bath, right away, clean clothes and broth." Her eyes focussed on something beyond Annabeth. "Who is this?"  
Sabre stood at her side, and her uncle scowled at him.  
"Oh, him," Annabeth said. "He is a... soldier. He helped me to escape."  
"Ah!" Jason's black brows rose. "Good man. Go and find a meal in the barracks."  
Sabre ignored him, and Jason asked, "Is he deaf?"  
Annabeth frowned at Sabre. "Go to the billets. They will feed you there."  
He strode away, and she watched him go, puzzled. 

Jason also gazed after him. "There is something odd about that fellow. Did you say he helped you to escape?"  
Annabeth nodded, about to explain, then thought better of it. "Yes."  
Piper tugged her towards the castle, pointing out the dangers of standing about in the cold wind. The Duchess guided her to a bedroom on the third floor, warmed by a roaring fire. Serving maids were already hard at work filling a tub with steaming water. 

The cyber entered the barracks, where a pot of meaty stew and a stack of plates were set out on a table. Off duty men relaxed in the long room, most clustered around the fireplace at one end. Some soldiers sat and ate at the rough-hewn tables, and hard beds furnished the rest of the room. After the cyber ate, he went in search of water, aware that he was dehydrated. Locating a horse trough in the yard, he pumped clean water to drink, then stripped off his clothes and equipment, hanging them on a nearby wall. He washed himself and his clothes, and many soldiers gathered to watch with amused grins. Judging by their smell, the soldiers never washed. Serving maids giggled and blushed as they hurried past, bolder ones stopped to stare. 

Dressed once more, the cyber re-entered the billet and assumed a resting stance beside the fire, back to the wall, since he had not been assigned a bed. He relaxed, and his host's eyes closed. The tiny supercomputer imbedded in the black crystals never rested, however, tracking the movements of the off duty soldiers. The men eyed the cyber, whispered and pointed. 

By the time the lights were doused and the soldiers ready to bunk down for the night, the cyber had been resting, immobile, for four hours. An old soldier approached, and, when he came within a metre, the cyber's eyes opened. The man stopped and gestured. 

"There's an empty bed there, lad. Feel free to use it."  
The cyber turned his head towards the indicated bed, and the veteran retreated. After a few minutes, the cyber went and lay down, arranged his body comfortably and allowed it to rest again.

_**Authors note**_

_**I hope you enjoyed the story so far!guys i would appreciate if you review!  
**_

_**Lemme tell u this, I started this project because i felt this story had a potential, to see no reviews its plainly dis-heartening for any author, so guys i would appreciate one or more reviews on this story.**_

_**To all viewers: Hope you enjoyed the story!**_

_**Your loving Author signing-off  
Confusion-123.**_


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